What Gold Buys

by Ann Parker

Inez leaned forward. “I believe I can find a suitable buyer quickly, one who will pay as much, or perhaps even more, than I was prepared to. If so, and you are satisfied, you could then return my down payment, holding back a portion for yourself, say, ten percent, for my reneging on our deal.”

  Flo tipped her head, considering. Inez watched as Flo’s gaze traveled to the far corner of the room and lingered there. Inez swore she could almost see the wheels turning in the madam’s brain. Money was a big motivator for Flo. However she and Inez were bound by more than a mutual desire to ensure the health of their individual bank accounts. Inez was counting on Flo’s desire for a compromise that would keep their relationship on an even keel and assure secrets on both sides would be kept.

  Flo’s gaze returned to Inez. The frown lines between her eyebrows had smoothed away and the storm clouds had cleared from her blue eyes. Before she even spoke, Inez knew that Flo would agree, at least in concept.

  “Who do you have in mind for this quick and lucrative sale?”

  Inez relaxed infinitesimally into the loveseat. “Isn’t it obvious? Mr. Stannert.”

  Flo laughed, a sharp note. “Excuse me, Mrs. Stannert, but isn’t that a bit like robbing Peter to pay Paul?”

  “You will have a buyer for the building and your money. Do you really care whose pocket that money comes from?”

  “Mmmmmm.”

  Inez kept her expression neutral. Flo’s perceptive blue-eyed gaze seemed to pierce the deliberate veil of indifference, revealing all that Inez sought to keep to herself.

  Flo finally said, “And you shall be free. Of your obligation to me, in any case.” She then shrugged. “Oh, what the hell. Agreed. I shall await a visit from Mr. Stannert with hat in hand and the words I long to hear on his lips. Words that indicate he is willing to pay a considerable sum of money for that pile of bricks at the corner of State and Pine.” Flo picked up the teapot, swirled its contents. “Still warm.” She poured a portion into the second teacup, adding, “Shall we have a drink to seal the deal?”

  Inez wanted to demur, not being a particular fan of tea, but Flo, with a sly grin, extracted a small sterling silver flask, exquisitely embossed with butterflies and flowers, from her red-lined black silk reticule. “A little something extra to smooth it out, perhaps?”

  Inez smiled back. “In that case, Mrs. Sweet, I believe I shall join you.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Stiff from crouching in the alley behind Alexander’s Undertaking, Tony stood, stretched, and shook out her hands. She figured an hour or two must have passed while she lurked around some empty crates to the side of the coffin-shop, waiting for a decent hour to call on Mr. Alexander. She’d spent the time practicing with Maman’s knife, trying to see how fast she could pull it from her pocket and unfold the blade without stabbing herself or snagging it on her coat. The handle had a ring that, when pulled, folded the blade back into its slot. Her maman could open the blade, slash, fold, and make the knife disappear in a blink. Maman hadn’t used it often, but when she did…

  A wave of sorrow rolled over her. Swallowing around the ache, Tony tried once again to imitate the fluid motions of her maman. The blade made a satisfying little clickety-click sound when opening, which emboldened, but also worried her. If she used the knife to defend herself against someone—Worthless Pisspot Brown and his gang came to mind—wouldn’t that little sound give her away? Ace sometimes flashed a knife around. Nothing as fancy as Maman’s, but he seemed to know how to use it, if his skill at mumblety-peg was proof. Maybe she could ask him for some pointers, just in case she got in a dust-up. She could imagine Ace teasing, “Think the stiffs’ll come to life at night and chase ya while you’re sweeping?”

  For now, she had to prepare herself to go knock on the back door of Alexander’s, doff her cap, duck her head, ask if the coffin-shop still was looking for a boy, and offer politenesses like “Yes sir,” “No sir,” “Thank you, sir.” Tony glanced at the sky, trying to gauge the time. The clouds pretty much hid the sun, but she thought normal business hours were probably underway. Not that coffin-shops would keep regular hours. Folks died any time of day or night.

  Tony took a deep breath for courage, polished the toes of her worn shoes on the backs of her trouser legs, then knocked on the whitewashed rear door. She was thinking that white was an odd color for a coffin-shop door when she heard the tread of masculine footsteps approach. She whipped off the oversized rust-colored derby just as the door opened.

  With a shock, she recognized the bespectacled square-faced man she’d seen the previous night. The one who had had to peel the posh woman all in black away from the door of the Bon Ton Billiard Hall. The same woman who had paid Maman a hundred dollars in gold, who had seemed half mad with grief. What had she said with her crazy words? “It was a gift.” Tony was struck with a thought that had the force of a thunderclap. Had she been talking about the payment to Maman? She’d also said something about killing with kindness, about making amends.

  The figure of the woman in black rose up in her mind’s eye: Tall, taller than Maman and strong. She’d held tight to that doorknob and her husband’d had a real struggle pulling her away. Didn’t crazy people have a crazy strength sometimes? Tony pictured a tall, black-clad shape overpowering her maman in the shack, Maman falling, grabbing at the air with empty hands as cords cut off her breath, not expecting this attack from so proper a woman.

  A shiver grabbed her legs.

  “Yes?”

  The husband of the madwoman was looking at her curiously. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  A somber voice to match the somber suit. Yet, Tony detected a teeny note of eagerness. Maybe he thought she was there because someone had died and needed a coffin-box.

  She finally stammered out, “M-Mr. Alexander, sir?”

  “Yes?” He adjusted his spectacles. Tony noticed that the thick glass made his eyes look bigger, sadder.

  “I, I heard that you were looking for help. A boy to sweep up. That kind of thing. I was wondering if the job was still open.”

  Mr. Alexander’s magnified eyes widened. “Yes, it is.” He looked Tony over, top to toes. “I was thinking of someone a little older. How old are you? And your name?”

  “Tony—” It occurred to Tony that using her own last name might not be a good idea. “Tony D—” She almost said Tony Deuce, but quickly changed her mind. “Donatello. And I’m—” More quick improvisation. “Fourteen, sir. Just small for my age. But I’m strong. I can sweep right well, and probably do almost anything else you need.”

  “Tony.” Mr. Alexander seemed to ponder. “I’m certainly well aware that size and strength do not necessarily correspond.”

  Tony thought of the woman in black again.

  The undertaker opened the door a little farther, saying, “You do know what my business is? That I am an undertaker and embalmer?”

  Emboldened by the wider entrance, Tony took a tentative step forward. “Yes, sir. I know.”

  Mr. Alexander stepped back, allowing Tony to enter. “I’m going to ask you some questions, and I want honest answers, no dissembling. By that, I mean no falsehoods. Have you ever been around a corpse?”

  Tony nodded, her throat tightening.

  “And what do you make of them, the dead?” he inquired gently.

  Tony struggled to form an answer. She wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Then, the answer popped out. “They’re just…dead. Nothing there anymore.”

  “Nothing.” He repeated encouragingly. “What about spirits, ghosts, the afterlife?”

  Tony shook her head. She knew where she stood on this question. She couldn’t lie, even if she wished she could, even though Maman had insisted there was more, that she had seen it. Maybe Maman had, but Tony never had. And when she’d seen and touched Maman, so dead and empty…“I don’t believe in spirits and such,” she said finally. “I know other people belie
ve different. But, what I’ve seen, Mr. Alexander, sir, is that when somebody dies, they’re gone.” She searched for a different word but couldn’t find one. “They’re just gone.”

  Mr. Alexander nodded. “It’s important to be respectful of the beliefs of the bereaved who must carry on in this corporeal world. We do so despite all logic and science to the contrary, which has never managed to find conclusive proof of life beyond the grave. Now, suppose you were sweeping downstairs, where we store the caskets and where we sometimes store a corpse waiting for an inquest, or for transport to family. If you were down there by yourself and heard a thump, a scratching, some little noise, or sensed a presence, what would you think of that?”

  Tony shrugged. “Someone dropped something upstairs? Or maybe there’s rats? But I’m fast with a broom. If it’s a rat, it won’t be scratching or thumping for long.”

  Mr. Alexander smiled, and Tony sensed she’d passed some kind of test. “I need someone to clean and tidy upstairs and down, who is punctual, and who can follow instructions to the letter, six days a week, three hours in the evenings, after closing. This schedule makes allowance for a person to take other employment during regular business hours, if desired. For this part-time employment, I am willing to pay two dollars a day, a grown man’s wage. But I need someone responsible, with a grown man’s rational perspective and logic. All that said, if you are still interested in working at Alexander’s Undertaking, Mr. Donatello, you have a job.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  After downing a satisfying cup of heavily laced black tea, Inez managed to steer the conversation between herself and Flo to local conjurors and fortunetellers, specifically, Madam Labasilier and Mrs. Gizzi. At the mention of Madam Labasilier, Flo wrinkled her nose in distaste.

  “Another reason I’m glad to be shut of the house on State Street. It’s too close to the rowdy element, Kate Armstead, Madam Labasilier, and the rest. We needed a more ‘elevated’ neighborhood for our high-end clientele.”

  Inez raised her eyebrows. “I thought Madam Labasilier was a hoodoo woman.”

  Flo heaved an irritated sigh. “When we were on State, my girls were always sneaking across the street to her for love potions, spells, curses. It’s a waste of money. That’s what I told them. Oh, they moan and weep about being working girls, and I tell them, straight out, if you weren’t spending what you make on tonics and talismans, you could save up enough to leave the sporting life, if that’s what you really want to do. Of course, they don’t listen.” Flo pursed her lips, then brightened. “Now that we’ve moved to Fifth Street, they don’t traipse down there nearly so often. As I’ve told them repeatedly, I do have a certain image to maintain, now that we’ve moved uptown. If they don’t see fit to live up to my standards, well, there are bright new faces coming in on the train every day. It’s not like I’d be a Hard-luck Lucy when it comes to finding replacements.”

  Inez reflected that nearly every corner of society, including the whoring business, had its pecking order. Inez could well imagine Flo, being at the top of the trade on Fifth, would frown on her women paying visits to Coon Row. “I understand a few of your ‘boarders’ brought Madam Labasilier to the Jacksons’ home with the idea of speeding Angel Jackson’s delivery. I walked in just as Doc Cramer unceremoniously showed her the door.”

  Flo simply rolled her eyes. “I won’t ask which girls were involved. I know some are betting on the date when Angel drops. Perhaps a few, seeing their chosen date approach, hoped to hurry things along.”

  Inez cocked her head, thinking. “Do you think Madam Labasilier would resort to physical violence?”

  Flo gave an unladylike snort. “She’s a little, shriveled-up hag. Not that violence is unheard of in Coon Row.” Flo leaned forward, almost slopping the remainder of her tea onto her lap. “Did you hear about the dust-up that occurred while you were gone?” She didn’t wait for Inez to respond. “One of Kate Armstead’s girls moved to another house and Kate snuck to the window one night and threw a bucket of lye over her. Then, about a week later, Kate attacked her beau with a razor. I knew it was time to leave State Street.” Flo sat back, vindicated in her decision.

  “So, do you think it possible that Labasilier might attack someone, if provoked?”

  “I’d say she relies on intimidation of a different sort, using her reputation and preying on the fears of others, waving gris-gris in the face of her enemies, spouting nonsense to scare them witless.”

  Inez thought that Flo was starting to sound a lot like Doc on the subject, but persisted. “What with your move, it sounds like she might have lost clients. Suppose there was a rival for her business? Do you think she might resort to physical weaponry?”

  “What kind of weaponry?”

  “A garrote, for instance.”

  “Goodness, I can’t imagine she has enough strength in those skinny arms to strangle a chicken.”

  Thinking back to Madam Labasilier swinging her cast-iron kettle in front of the Jacksons’ home, Inez was inclined to disagree with this assessment of the woman’s physical strength. In addition, when Inez had spied her hours later outside Gizzi’s shack, Labasilier’s entire posture was different—she stood straight and seemed to have shed years in the bargain. Could the crooked frame and shuffling gait be an illusion to make herself look older and frailer than she was?

  Inez’s musings on that point were interrupted when Flo asked, “You say Labasilier has a rival? If there’s a new spellcaster in town, please tell me. That way, if my girls start talking, I’ll be able to cut them off at the pass.”

  Inez focused on the painted pink flowers on the side of the teacup, and decided it might be advantageous to share more information with Flo than she’d originally intended. If anyone knew about the goings-on in the netherworld of State Street, it would be Flo. Despite Flo’s assertions that she had “left it all behind” in her recent move, Inez was willing to bet that the whorehouse madam paid close attention to State Street’s denizens and their doings, if only to keep a finger on the pulse of Leadville’s preferred vices.

  Inez lifted the teapot and added another measure into her cup. Flo tipped a generous amount from her flask into Inez’s tea without prompting.

  “Drina Gizzi,” Inez said.

  “Gizzi?” Flo looked blank.

  “She lived in the French Row area. I believe she had only been there a couple of months. A sign above her door reads FUTURES AND FORTUNES TOLD.”

  Comprehension dawned. “Oh! The Gypsy?”

  “She’s a Gypsy?”

  “Well, she reads tea leaves, palms, cards, that sort of thing. So, she’s a Gypsy. A traveler. What have you.” Flo lifted a shoulder in dismissal. “Unlike most of her ilk, she seems to be operating alone. I haven’t heard much about her.” She paused. “Well, that’s not entirely true.”

  Inez gestured with her cup: go on.

  Flo obliged. “Some of my girls went to her once, but I gather she didn’t really tell them what they wanted to hear, you know, the ‘you will meet and marry and tall handsome man and, oh yes, he’ll be immensely wealthy’ type of future they like to imagine. In any case, I can’t imagine Madam Labasilier would see her as a threat. Labasilier rules State Street as far as that kind of business goes.”

  “I am on State Street myself, but I can’t say that I recall hearing about her before,” Inez pointed out, draining her lukewarm tea.

  Flo’s mouth quirked. “I guess you move in different circles than waiter girls and whores, Mrs. Stannert.”

  Inez thought on Drina Gizzi, accompanied to the Jacksons by the dignified Mrs. Alexander. “Maybe ‘moving in different circles’ is the key here.”

  “Key to what?” asked Flo, adding, “Why so many questions, Mrs. Stannert?”

  Inez sighed. “Drina Gizzi was murdered last night, garroted. When the law arrived, her body had vanished. Poof!”

  Flo looked intrigued. “M
aybe she wasn’t dead. Maybe it was a ruse. Maybe she got on the wrong side of someone or owed money—‘taxes’ to the nightwatch to look the other way, that sort of thing—so decided to fake her own death and vamoosed, with no one the wiser.”

  “She was definitely dead. I found her. I saw her face. The garrote was a silver and gold cord.” Inez paused. “Speaking of, have you had a ‘merchant of unmentionables’ selling his wares on Fifth lately?”

  “Russet hair? Sly face? Oh, yes. He knocked on our door a few days ago. Had some lovely stockings, unusual patterns. And beautiful corset covers. Hmmm. It just occurred to me, he’s a traveler and a loner as well. Maybe the two of them were in cahoots or…” Her voice drifted off. An odd shadow crossed her face.

  “A traveler? Well, he sells door to door, so of course he travels.” Comprehension dawned. “Oh, you mean he’s a Gypsy?”

  “He looks like one.”

  “And by ‘in cahoots’ are you saying he and Mrs. Gizzi might know each other and…what?”

  Flo opened and closed her mouth, then lifted her empty cup, taking a pretend sip, pinkie finger delicately extended. Inez squinted suspiciously at her. Inez had seen Flo display many moods, including white-hot rage, heart-breaking despair, full-on flirtation, and all-business calculation. But this was the first time she’d seen her so hesitant.

  “Mrs. Sweet?” she prodded.

  Flo leaned forward to set the cup back on its china saucer. “A moment, Mrs. Stannert. I’m trying to figure out how to say this to you.” She straightened back in the chair, recrossed her legs, and commenced tapping the arms of her chair with restless fingertips. “You mentioned this fortuneteller was strangled with a silver and gold cord.”

  “Two of them, actually, wound into a thin rope.”

  “Well, this drummer. He had some beautiful silver corset laces, although I didn’t see any like those, silver and gold. We bought lots of the silver. Leadville, silver barons, you understand.”